Lullabies and Hand Grenades
by LaylaBinx
Summary: [Part 4 of the Defrost series] "You said he was fine, you never said anything about him being turned into a toddler!" In which Steve gets turned into the most adorable two year old ever and Bucky is completely, hilariously out of his element. Fluff and cuteness abound! :D
1. The definition of 'compromised'

**Hello all! Hope this story finds you well! So I found the most ridiculously adorable prompt in the LJ archives and I've been knocking this idea around in my head for the past couple weeks now and finally got around to writing it. It's mostly just my excuse to write some impossibly cute fluff and a little bit of humor after all the angsty drama I've been working on recently! Hope you all enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing =/**

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"Somebody better give me some Goddamn answers or I'm going to start using agents as target practice," James growls dangerously as he shoves his way into the office. The two agents flanking him take a half step back at the threat, giving the former assassin plenty of room lest he decide to follow through with it.

Fury looks up expectantly, completely unperturbed by the warning. "None of that will be necessary, Agent Barnes." He nods toward the open chair on the other side of the desk. "Have a seat."

"I'll stand," James snaps in return, his words coming out like a whip crack.

"Fair enough," Fury allows, straightening from his chair and smoothing his slacks briefly. "I trust you had a smooth flight?"

"Cut the crap, Fury," the assassin growls, resisting the urge to throttle the man across from him. "You know why I'm here."

Fury nods once in agreement. "I do. And I'll be glad to answer any questions you might have once you take your hand off your gun."

James glances down, not realizing that his metal hand had somehow wrapped itself around the handle of his pistol. He forces himself to let go and levels a glare at the director. "I want to know where Steve is."

"He's here," Fury tells him simply but there's the barest hint of _something_ in his voice that makes the other man's stomach do a lazy flip.

"Is he dead?" he asks, speaking past the heaviness in his throat that feels like a musket ball.

"No," Fury says with a slight shake of his head. "Captain Rogers is alive and well. He's here on the helicarrier as we speak."

James blinks in surprise at the answer. He'd been bracing himself for the response for the past eight hours, preparing for the worst. It had been a long, _long_ flight and he'd gotten more and more anxious as the hours passed by with no response. He and his team had been en route to intercept a weapons shipment from a warehouse in Frankfurt when he'd gotten the message. There had been a tiny chirp, a single text message, and his stomach had dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his feet.

'_Rogers has been compromised. Return ASAP.' _One simple message and James felt like the world had fallen out from under him. He knew enough about S.H.I.E.L.D and their organization to know that 'compromised' was a word you never wanted to hear in regards to another agent. Compromised could mean any number of things and none of them were ever good. Compromised could mean missing or captured or held hostage. Compromised could mean injured or sick or in jeopardy. Compromised could mean dead.

He had nothing else to go on and the text message had been sent through a line that went dead and untraceable a split second after it had completed its task. S.H.I.E.L.D didn't respond to his calls and all attempts at finding out any additional information went completely unanswered. All he knew was that Steve was compromised (possibly hurt/missing/dead) and he was halfway across the world.

He was on a flight back to the U.S. in less than an hour, still trying to get information and becoming more and more desperate the longer he waited. Steve needed him, he could be hurt/missing/dead and no one was answering the phone to fill him in on the details. When he boarded the plane in Frankfurt, he had been worried; when he shoved his way into Fury's office, he was furious.

"So he's okay?" James asks suspiciously because Fury is hiding something, he just doesn't know what.

"Yes," the director answers with a nod.

"He's not hurt? He's not being held for ransom? Someone didn't smack him upside the head with that stupid shield of his?"

Fury just shakes his head patiently at the litany of questions tossed at him. "I assure you, Agent Barnes, Steve Rogers is alive and well."

James is about to lose his damn mind. "Then would you mind telling me why one of your S.H.I.E.L.D lackies felt it necessary to send me one of the vaguest and most cryptic text messages of all time?!"

Fury just steps away from his desk and walks toward the door leading out to the hallway. "Maybe it would be best if you just follow me." He slides past James out into the hallway and for all his irritation and impatience, the former assassin follows him obediently.

"So if Steve hasn't been kidnapped or tortured and is as "fine" as you say he is, would you care to enlighten me on your definition of 'compromised'?" James mutters heatedly as he follows Fury down the winding halls of the helicarrier. "Because obviously our definitions of that word are two entirely different things. 'Compromised' usually doesn't equate to 'fine' in my book."

"You're right, Agent Barnes," Fury tells him as he leads him further into the heart of the helicarrier, down toward the infirmary. It's not a promising direction. "My definition of 'compromised' is completely different from yours and with good reason. Being in this line of work, handling some of the situations S.H.I.E.L.D finds itself in, the word 'compromised' becomes less of a description and more of an umbrella term. Many of our agents can be considered both 'fine' and 'compromised' depending on what they are currently engaged in and how it affects them."

The doors to the infirmary slide open with a pneumonic whoosh and Fury steps inside, James following him wordlessly. "'Fine' is something of a relative term here on this ship. When I say that Steve Rogers is fine, I mean that in every possible way: he's healthy, he's unharmed, and he is onboard the helicarrier as we speak. But in spite of all that reassurance, he is most definitely compromised."

"And that means…?"

"That means follow me," Fury says, continuing to lead him through the infirmary toward the more private rooms in the back.

"I swear to God, Fury-"

"Swear to whoever you'd like," Fury tells him casually over one shoulder and James has to resist the urge to throw a punch. "But you might want to be a little more specific about which god you choose to swear to. Turns out there are more of them out there than we originally thought."

He comes to a stop in front of one of the rooms, the door closed but the blinds in the windows slatted just enough to see inside. There are a few nurses crowded around the bed, shielding the occupant from view. James is nearly to the point of bursting through the door when he stops, catching sight of the patient inside.

He scowls at Fury and glares at him from the corner of his eye. "You said you were taking me to Steve, not S.H.I.E.L.D's onsite day care center."

Fury appears quietly amused by the assessment and nods back toward the window. "Take a closer look."

James sighs in irritation but does as he's told, peering through the window at the patient inside. He's sitting upright on the bed, blue eyes wide and curious as they watch the nurses move around him. His blond hair is longer than James remembers, falling across his forehead in a shaggy mop of cornsilk strands. He's quiet and pensive, hands folded in his lap and bare feet swinging off the edge of the bed as the nurses continue to swarm around him. It's definitely Steve Rogers and he looks just as healthy and safe as Fury had said he was. He also looks like he's about two years old.

James gawks wordlessly for another few seconds before turning to face Fury. "What the hell is _this_?!" he demands, gesturing toward the window wildly. "You said he was fine, you never said _anything_ about him being turned into a toddler!"

The smile Fury gives him is patient and understanding, like someone who's used to all the weird shit that takes place in the world and is witnessing someone else experience it for the first time. "Like I said, 'fine' is something of a relative term." He nods toward the window and the little boy inside. "And _this_, Agent Barnes, is your new assignment."

Realization dawns quickly and James shakes his head so hard he feels his neck pop. "No. Hell no. Absolutely not."

"I'm afraid you misunderstand," Fury counters, a granite hardness in his voice. "You don't exactly have a choice in this matter. This assignment falls well above the classification of nearly every agent on this ship and you are the only one who meets the criteria. This is well beyond classified and as such, we need only our best agents on the job. And that would be you." Fury looks back at window and shrugs slightly. "Besides, he asked for you personally."

"I don't care who he asked for!" James retorts incredulously, still floundering to understand the insanity of the situation he'd found himself in. "This is the worst idea you guys have ever had! Are you forgetting that the last time Steve and I were left alone together I nearly ripped his throat out with a broken lamp?! And that was when he was when he was at full capacity Captain America mode! What do you think would happen now, huh? Look at him, Fury! His feet don't even touch the ground!"

"I understand your concern, Agent Barnes," Fury continues smoothly and obviously he _doesn't_ understand his concern because James is quite literally about to freak the hell out. "But Agent Coulson has told me that you haven't experienced a violent episode in well over three weeks and that you've proven to be an exemplary field agent."

"Me being a reliable field agent is not a good enough reason, Fury," James growls because Fury just isn't getting this and he really, _really_ needs him to understand what a horrible idea this is. "I'm not exactly babysitter material; I literally have a hand grenade in my back pocket right now that proves that point. I'm unstable on my best of days, absolutely deadly on my worst, and you think that leaving a tiny, fragile, pint-sized Captain America in my care is actually a good idea? If that's the case then you guys are stupider than I thought."

"Stupidity has nothing to do with it," Fury retaliates sharply, fixing the other man with a heated glare. "We need someone with unquestionable loyalty to Steve Rogers that will protect him and keep him safe until all of this is sorted out. And, unless all of my information is wrong, which it never is, the last time I checked, you fit that profile."

"Yeah and you know who else fits that profile? Coulson. And I can guarantee he has a nicer, happier, less death-filled resume than I do."

Fury just shakes his head slowly. "That may be true but Coulson is currently in Guatemala on other S.H.I.E.L.D-related business. As he is currently away and will continue to be away for the next several days, you were our next top choice."

"I'm _no one's_ top choice unless they want someone dead!" James hisses in frustration, hands flailing irritably as he speaks. "What about Stark, huh? He seems stable and at least marginally sane. Why don't you hide Steve away with him?"

"Because Stark Tower is damn near a beacon for every scumbag and low life in the city. Every would-be super villain who wants to make a name for himself goes to that tower in hopes of taking down one of the big guys and earning some respect. Seriously, the tower gets attacked nearly once a week."

James opens his mouth to say something else but Fury cuts him off and continues. "And before you ask, the helicarrier is out of the question for the same reason. We're not exactly incognito here and there are thousands of people out there who would like nothing more than to see this ship sink to the bottom of the bay. So no, he can't stay here either."

Fury turns to look at him then, his expression serious. "He needs to be take somewhere quiet and safe, somewhere that won't raise suspicion while we work to get this fixed."  
James lets out a frustrated groan and turns away from Fury, his attention focusing in on the tiny boy sitting on the edge of the bed inside the room. He's small and skinny and frail but it's most definitely Steve Rogers. Even from where he's standing, James can still see sharp curiosity and determination reflecting in the child's bright blue eyes. He remembers those eyes and that expression, he'd seen it nearly every day of his life before the Fall. This was still Steve, small and childlike as he was, and James feels something in him give just a bit.

"Is this permanent?" he asks quietly, his gaze still locked on Steve.

Fury shakes his head slowly. "To the best of our knowledge, no. It was a powerful spell directed at our resident Norse thunder god; Steve just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Past history indicates that this can be reversed, it's just a matter of finding the person responsible. We've sent Thor and Stark ahead to track him down; if they're successful we should be able to reverse this in a few days."

"Until that time, however," Fury continues, looking back at him. "We need someone to keep an eye on Steve and keep him safe. Believe me, Barnes, you're the best person for this job."

He couldn't really deny that fact; no one was better at protecting Steve than him. He had done it all his life and he knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would give his life to keep Steve safe. But what happened when the person Steve needed to be protected from was him? Could he honestly trust himself enough to keep a toddler version of Steve safe when he wasn't even sure an adult version of Steve was safe around him? He was a killer, that much was certain, but he was also Steve's best friend and it was his job to keep him safe, right?

He sighs heavily and lets his head fall back in defeat. "I still think this is the worst idea you guys have _ever_ come up with."

"I'll keep that in mind," Fury tells him with a nod of acknowledgement.

"Just remember that I'm not responsible for any mental or emotional scarring that occurs during this little arrangement of yours," James mutters as he steps toward the door. "If I accidently break him, it's all on you, Fury."

The director doesn't say anything in response as James pushes the door open and slips into the room. He walks slowly and carefully, shoving his hands deep into his pockets in an attempt to look as non-threatening as possible. He's been on missions that would leave lesser men crying in a corner, he's seen and done things so horrible he doesn't have name for them, and he's brushed off death so many times he doesn't remember what it feels like to be afraid anymore. But right now, in this moment, standing in the same room as the tiny, fragile, toddler version of his best friend, he's absolutely terrified.

Steve catches sight of him from across the room, peering around the nurses surrounding him with big blue eyes. "Bucky!" he cries excitedly, leaping off the table and running across the room. He's barefoot and a little unsteady as he runs but he can move a lot faster than James gives him credit for. He all but throws himself into the assassin's arms once he gets close enough, clinging to him like he's made out of suction cups and velcro.

James catches him, just barely, and lets out a surprised little "oomph" from the force of the collision. It's awkward for a moment and he staggers a bit before he regains his footing, Steve holding on tightly the whole time.

"Hey Stevie," he greets the child now clutched in his arms. "You just can't seem to stay out of trouble while I'm gone, can you, kid?" The toddler just grins at him and holds on.

James sighs heavily, adamantly ignoring the smothered smiles of the nurses in the room, and walks back toward the door. Fury is still in the hallway when he steps out, his expression carefully neutral. "I'll arrange for some agents to escort you both back to the mainland," he says as James walks past him.

"You're a sadist," the agent retorts, arranging Steve more carefully in his arms. Steve, for his part, doesn't seem at all disturbed by the turn of events. He seems to think James is the absolute greatest thing in the world and he clings to him with as much strength as he can.

James sighs again as he makes his way down the hall. "You really are going to be the death of me, Rogers," he mutters, keeping Steve's tiny body pressed close to his own. "Let's go home."

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**Thanks for reading! More to come soon guys! :D**


	2. Of finger paints and teddy bears

**Hello all! I hope you're doing well! So I've had a few readers ask me about Steve's mental state now that he's been de-aged and how much he actually remembers. In my head, he can still recognize everyone but his memories have been de-aged along with the rest of him; like he'll remember a few things but he can't really verbalize them because he's physically/mentally about 2-3 years old. A bit confusing but hopefully it's not too bad!**

**Hope you all enjoy it! :D**

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"Oh my God, he looks like the Gerber baby…"

James sighs heavily, biting back a frustrated growl in his throat. He's been doing that a lot lately. "Could you be serious for, like, five seconds?"

"Dude, Captain America has been turned into a Cabbage Patch Kid. This is as serious as I can get considering the circumstances," the other man replies casually, his eyes never leaving the tiny figure clutching the assassin's hand in a death grip. Steve stares at him with wide, cautious eyes, pressing himself a bit closer to James's leg. On some level, he seems to recognize him but on another he sees a stranger, someone not as familiar to him as the person he's huddled against and since James is the only thing that makes sense in his small little world, he's not getting any closer than he has to.

"Do you think he's potty trained yet?" the man continues and James is regretting this decision more and more with every passing second.

"Seriously?" he mutters quietly with a groan. Before leaving the helicarrier, Fury had helpfully told him to stop by the Stark Tower to pick up a few things that may come in handy while the whole de-aged fiasco was going on. Apparently Stark's girlfriend/personal assistant/what-would-he-do-without-her had a nephew close to Steve's (current) age and she had managed to borrow some clothes that would fit the tiny Captain until this whole thing was sorted out. Not only that, she had offered to watch him for an hour or so while James went back to Steve's apartment and toddler-proofed everything in it (and Jesus, that's a task he _never_ would have pegged himself for). The fact that she had barely even batted an eye at the request just served as a testament to the amount of weird shit she must face on a near daily basis.

Still, James can't help but be grateful for her efforts. For all their preparation and training, S.H.I.E.L.D had proven to be remarkably ill-equipped to deal with someone reverting back to childhood. Their answer to clothing the toddler version of Steve Rogers was to stuff him in the smallest S.H.I.E.L.D-issued t-shirt they could find and call it a day. It was an extra small and still three times too big for the tiny Captain, hanging around his small frame like a dress rather than a shirt. He was still barefoot and completely lacking in anything that would fit his dramatically smaller body. Pepper Potts had offered a solution and James had readily accepted her offer.

What he wasn't ready for, however, was the unofficial meet-and-greet with the other members of the Avengers party. Stark was gone already, off searching the far reaches of the galaxy for the person who did this with someone named Thor. Natasha had gone with them for negotiation purposes because apparently she was _very_ good at persuasion when it suited her.

With those three gone, that left him in charge of Steve along with Pepper and two other people he'd never met before. When asked why they were left out of said search-and-retrieve mission, one of the men, who had identified himself as Clint, offered up a rather vague answer.

"They're looking for Thor's brother," he told him briefly when they first arrived. "Guy by the name of Loki. He's psychotic, a megalomaniac, and a Grade A drama queen; like a big ol' grab bag full of crazy."

"So he's the one responsible for this?" James asks, feeling a muscle in his jaw tighten as he spoke.

"Yep," Clint answers with a short nod, looking the toddler version of Steve up and down briefly. "Although to be fair, I don't think he was aiming at Steve. It was some convoluted plan to turn Thor into a child so he could rightfully claim the throne back on Asgard. Thor managed to avoid it but…" he looks at Steve again, the rest of the sentence going unfinished.

"Got it," James says with another sigh. "So a Norse god with a grudge coupled with hand-wavey sorcery results in Captain America being transformed into a kid. Great." He passed a hand through his hair in frustration. "So is there any particular reason you weren't invited along for the hunting party?"

Clint smiles wanly and shakes his head. "Mostly because me and the green guy were off on our own mission in Barcelona; didn't get word of this until we got back. Also, I wasn't invited because the last time Loki and I were around each other, he used said hand-wavey sorcery to get in my head and play hacky-sack with everything in there."

He smirks darkly and shrugs one shoulder. "Something like that leaves a guy feeling a bit stabby, you know? The others thought I might have a "conflict of interests" while searching for him," Clint continues, making exaggerated use of the air quotes."Which, to be honest, they're probably right. I mean I can't guarantee I wouldn't try to shoot him at least once if I ever saw him again."

"And the other guy?" James asks because he's nearly certain he saw someone else stumbling down the hallway when they walked in earlier.

"Oh, Bruce?" Clint asks, hiking a thumb down said hallway. "Nah, Bruce doesn't have a problem with Loki, not to my knowledge at least. He's always pretty out of it for a few hours after he changes back though so I wouldn't take offense to the non-committal greeting he tossed at you earlier; he'll be in a much better mood later. Bruce is pretty neutral as far as the whole Loki situation goes but Hulk on the other hand…"

"Hulk?"

"Yeah, uh...Hulk is kind of like Bruce's very own Mr. Hyde," Clint clarifies carefully, glancing over his shoulder toward the hall. "The guy is basically the human equivalent of everything zen but when he gets angry, well, Hulk isn't exactly known for his gentle, caring nature. He more or less mopped the floor with Loki the last time he saw him so I guess the others are worried the same thing might happen if he sees him again."

James vaguely remembers the video footage he'd watched from the Battle for New York back when he'd studying Steve as a target. He remembers blurry images of a monstrous green creature standing among the rubble and ruin of the city, bellowing in rage and crushing everything that got close. The memories don't exactly instill him with confidence in leaving Steve here while he goes to child-proof the apartment.

"Jesus, this was a mistake…" he mumbles as Steve presses a bit closer to his leg.

"It's not a mistake," a voice assures him from one of the connecting hallways. He looks up to see Pepper making her way around the corner into the main part of the living room. "Believe it or not, Hulk is actually surprisingly good with kids," Pepper tells him with a small smile. "And Clint worked in the circus so he's used to kids too."

"Not kids like that," Clint counters quickly with a nod toward Steve.

She nudges him in the ribs lightly as she passes. "Don't worry," she tells him with a reassuring smile. "We can keep an eye on him for a little while until you get back."

With Steve still clinging to his pants leg tightly, James is a bit hesitant to leave him alone with people he doesn't know that well. These are Steve's teammates so they can't be that bad but he's always been wary when it comes to Steve and now, current circumstances withstanding, he's even more hesitant. Still, he doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter. The apartment needs to be prepped and child-proofed and that can really only be done without a child being present. Not only that, he's still armed to the teeth thanks to his hasty departure from his earlier mission and stashing said weapons would require a bit more finesse than simply stuffing them in a closet. He needed to make sure the apartment was safe and he also needed a safe place to stash his weapons, both of which could only be accomplished with Steve somewhere else entirely. He sighs softly, knowing his options are limited.

Pepper seems to understand the struggle and gives him another smile. "We'll take good care of him, I promise."

James nods in defeat and glances down at the little boy pressed against his leg. "I'll be back in an hour, hour and a half at most."

Pepper nods in understanding and crouches down so she's eye level with Steve. "Hey cutie," she says with a warm smile. "How would you like to spend the afternoon with us here at the Tower?"

Steve stares at her with big blue eyes, his expression cautious and a little hesitant. Just like with Clint, he seems to recognize her but he's still a bit wary of her approach. He looks up at James instead, unsure of what to do.

"It's okay," James tells him quietly even though he's wrestling with the same hesitation. "She's nice."  
Steve hesitates for a second or so more before his fingers slowly uncurl from James' pants leg and he takes a very small, cautious step forward. He allows Pepper to take his tiny hand in her own and turns back to face James. "Going away?" he asks in small, quiet voice.

James feels like he's been punched in the chest. Steve is looking at him with the same puppy-eyed expression he was always so good at and damned if James doesn't feel like the worst piece of trash on the planet for leaving him again.

He lets out a slow breath and nods. "Yeah, Stevie, I have to leave for a little bit. But I'm coming right back, okay?"

Steve doesn't answer right away, torn between running back to cling to James' leg or allowing Pepper to lead him away. "Promise?" he asks finally, blue eyes wide and imploring.

James nods and rests his flesh hand on top of Steve's head gently. "I promise, kid."

Steve seems to accept this and doesn't struggle when Pepper scoops him up into her arms. "Come on, sweetie," she says with a smile, hugging him close to her. "You wanna go jump on uncle Tony's bed?" Upon seeing Steve's shy smile, she grins back. "Let's go jump on uncle Tony's bed."

James watches them go, Steve's eyes staying on him until they leave the room. He's nearly tempted to follow along after Pepper but he stops himself, refusing to give in to the temptation of Steve's world destroying puppy-eyes.

Clint obviously notices the internal struggle and reaches out, clapping James on the shoulder. The assassin almost shrugs it off on reflex but stops himself at the last second. "Don't worry, Barnes," Clint tells him and the teasing tone leaves his voice, leaving him instantly calm and reassuring. "We'll keep an eye on him until you get back."

James sighs and feels his shoulders slump in defeat. "Give me an hour."

"An hour? Hell, I'll give you two. It'll give me plenty of time to make a photo album for Coulson. He's practically kicking himself because he couldn't be here for this."

James rolls his eyes and walks toward the door. "Photo evidence will be destroyed," he informs politely over one shoulder as he walks away. Clint's laughter follows him out into the hallway, cut off only when the door swishes closed behind him.

**OOOOO**

It takes exactly fifty-two minutes to toddler-proof Steve's apartment. It's not a difficult process, it involves more covering electrical outlets and making sure nothing heavy/sharp/breakable is within arms reach than anything else. The apartment is larger than one Steve had before, this one now furnished with two bedrooms as opposed to the previous one. Apparently Steve had taken some measures after James left to ensure he had a place to stay when/if he came back. The furniture is still just as scarce as it was before, an extra bed and a chest of drawers in the spare bedroom being the only additions to the previously existing arrangement.

Stowing the weapons turns out to be easier than expected; a S.H.I.E.L.D provided storage unit located less than a block away from the apartment offers a temporary place for his cache of weapons and artillery. It feels strange to be so unarmed but he knows it's necessary; he's not willing to risk Steve's safety for anything and that includes keeping the weapons in the house.

He does one more sweep of the apartment before feeling satisfied that it's thoroughly child-proofed. Content with the idea that Steve can't inadvertently kill himself with anything in the apartment, James leaves the complex and hails a cab to take him back across town to the Tower.

The cab lets him out in the parking lot and he has to wait for one of the employees to enter the access code for the elevator that will take him to the upper floors of the Tower. The increased security measures make sense in an ironic sort of way: they were put in place because of him and the first time he came to the Tower on a mission to kill Steve. Now, months later, those extra precautions were still in play only now he was technically on speaking terms with the Avengers and had been designated temporary caregiver to one of them. Odd how things work out that way.

He steps into the elevator and scans the pass card Pepper had given him earlier. A green light blinks and an additional code is needed for approval. He enters the code and the green light blinks again in authorization, the elevator car slowly beginning to rise to the upper floors. It's tedious as all hell to go through all the security checkpoints but considering the people living and working in the Tower, it makes sense. The highest level of security must be maintained not only for safety but also for productivity.

James walks into the scene of utter destruction. There's paint absolutely everywhere: all over the floor, halfway up the walls, and some smeared on the legs of chairs and the table. There are paint-covered hand and footprints leading into the living room and circling the dining room table like the person responsible couldn't decide where he wanted to be. The room is a complete mess and sitting in the center of it is Steve.

He's sitting in the middle of a plastic tarp and he's covered head-to-toe in paint. There's blue in his hair, yellow on his face, purple and green on his arms, and a wide assortment of other colors splattered everywhere else. There's a large sheet of paper in front of him and he's fully engrossed in painting whatever it is he's working on. Unfortunately, it seems that "painting" is less about brushes and blending and more about grabbing a tiny handful of paint and smearing it all over the page.

"I thought we were going to paint the horse brown," Clint says and for the first time James realizes that he's on the floor as well, equally covered in paint although not to the same extent that Steve is.

"Dog," Steve corrects quietly, not looking up from the mass of paint he's currently smearing over the paper.

"Dog," Clint says with a small affirming nod. "Got it. I thought we were painting the dog brown."

"Orange," Steve corrects again and whatever it is he's painting looks absolutely _nothing_ like a dog or a cow or anything even remotely resembling an animal. It just looks like a giant blob of colors.

"Dogs aren't orange, dude," Clint tells him but Steve is having none of it.

"Orange," he says again, holding up a paint-covered hand for emphasis.

"Yeah, orange, I know, but dogs aren't-"

"Orange."

"Okay, fine," Clint says with a sigh although there's no real frustration in his voice; he seems to realize that arguing with a toddler is essentially useless.

James blinks and it takes him a second to realize he's been standing motionless and staring for close to a minute now. Steve sees him though and he's on his feet a split second later. "Bucky!" he exclaims, running across the room, paint smeared footprints trailing along behind him.

James manages to brace himself a little better this time and catches Steve and he runs bodily into his leg. "Hey pal, looks like you've been having fun while I was gone." He looks at Clint with a mixture of bewilderment and accusation. "What the hell? I was only gone for an hour."

Clint shrugs and stands slowly, kicking the plastic tarp into a wad in the center of the floor. "We were painting."

"Yeah, I can see that. He looks like Picasso threw up on him."

The archer just rolls his eyes in response. "Relax, Barnes. It's acrylic, it'll wash right off." He seems to realize the extent of the destruction for the first time and lets out a low whistle. "Probably a good thing; Tony would have my ass if this stuff stained."

"Where's Pepper?"

Clint brushes his paint covered hands over the legs of his jeans. "Emergency Skype conference. Since Tony is out of the office playing Galaxy Quest, Pepper has to step up and take control of the Tower until he gets back. Granted, she's used to running the Tower anyway but…" Clint leaves out the rest of the sentence, shrugging one shoulder slightly.

"Great," James mutters, glancing back down at the paint-covered toddler clinging to his leg. "Well I can't take him home like this. Is there a bathtub somewhere in this building?"

"Uh, yeah," Clint says after a second, wracking his brain to remember where exactly it is. "Fifth door on your left down that hall," he says pointing down the hallway over James' shoulder. "It's a whirlpool jacuzzi but it should work well enough."

James nods in approval and turns his attention back to Steve. "Alright, kid, bath time."

At the word "bath", Steve lets out an enthusiastic "no!" and tries to run away. James is just a little bit quicker and manages to catch the tiny Captain around the waist with his metal arm.

"Sorry, you've been overruled," he says, hauling Steve over his shoulder and walking down the hall toward the aforementioned bathroom. Steve struggles and squirms but it's less him trying to get away and more just him being difficult. He's giggling the whole way down the hall.

The bathroom is easily the size of their first apartment back in Brooklyn with sprawling marble floors, matching sinks and countertops, and a tub big enough to fit four grown adults. James is only too aware of what has probably occurred in that tub so he feels no real remorse when he decides that's the best way to get Steve clean.

He sets Steve on the floor and locks the door behind him. Steve takes a few stumbling steps toward the door and reaches for the handle, finding he's just a few inches short of actually touching it.

"Sorry kid," James tells him as he watches the scene unfold. "But you must be at least 3 feet tall in order to exit the bathroom without assistance." He nods back to the tub instead. "Come on, into the tub. The sooner we get you clean, the sooner we can go home."

Steve doesn't move for a second and James lets out a long sigh. "Listen, pal, we can do this the easy way or the hard way and I'm not too fond of the hard way because it usually ends badly. Take a bath and I'll...I don't know, give you a cookie or something."

Steve seems to accept the offer and steps away from the door, walking back to where James is standing. The assassin drops down to one knee and swipes his thumb over a long yellow and purple streak beneath Steve's eye. "Good thing Pepper got you some clothes," he says, taking in the completely paint splattered S.H.I.E.L.D shirt covering Steve's tiny frame. "I think this was the smallest shirt Fury's lackies could find. Probably the only one too."

He twists over one shoulder and turns on the faucet, adjusting the knobs deftly. Satisfied with the temperature, he turns back to Steve and grips the bottom of the shirt. "Alright, arms up."

Steve obeys wordlessly and allows James to strip the shirt off over his head. Now divested of the shirt, Steve is left naked and shivering on the cold tiles. James briefly wonders if he should feel awkward about this but quickly decides he doesn't care and that Steve is still covered in paint. Besides, they grew up together (at least memory tells him they did) and he's pretty sure they've undressed in front of each other at least once. So problem solved.

"Okay, in you go," he says, scooping the boy up off the floor and depositing him into the tub. He allows the water to run for a few more minutes until it's deep enough to actually work with before turning it off.

The paint comes off of Steve's skin with little more than water but it's stuck in his hair and that will probably take a little more effort. He reaches across the tub for the closest thing to shampoo he can find. It's Moroccan Mint something or another and he wants to punch Stark on sheer principle. Whatever, if it will get the paint off he doesn't really care.

He squirts a small amount of it into his flesh hand and works it into Steve's hair. "Close your eyes," he tells him as the suds trickle down from his hair and over his face. Steve does as he's told immediately, squeezing his eyes closed tightly at avoid getting soap in them. It still bothers James that Steve can trust him so implicitly, no hesitation and no questions asked. He knows he could easily blame it on the innocence that comes with being a child thanks to Steve's current predicament but it's more than that.

Steve had always trusted him unquestionably ever since they were kids and that had never changed. He would follow him to the ends of the earth and back without hesitation and would do absolutely anything James ever asked of him. He could probably ask him to jump off a cliff into a tub filled with piranha and the dumb kid would actually do it. It bothers him that he came so close to losing Steve on more than one occasion and that he had been the cause of most of it. He won't let him down again, he can't. He'll keep Steve safe if it's the last thing he does.

The paint comes out easily enough, rinsing free with the help of the shampoo and coloring the water a faint bluish color in the tub. By the time it's all said and done, the water is an odd brownish-green from the mixture of colors and the soap bubbles floating on top take on a rainbow hue.

James unplugs the tub and scoops Steve out of the water, bundling him in a towel that's big enough to be considered a bedsheet. He looks back to the paint covered t-shirt on the floor and realizes with a sigh that he forgot to grab a change of clothes before dragging Steve away to the bathroom. Keeping the tiny, shivering Captain wrapped tightly in the towel, he opens the door and walks back down the hallway to the living room.

Clint nearly has the living room completely clean again by the time he gets back, the paint tucked away and the tarp tossed out. He glances up when they enter, seeing a clean Steve draped in nothing but a towel. "I take it you found the tub."

"Yep," James says as he grabs a change of clothes from the pile Pepper had given him. "Although I'm sure Stark won't be too happy about the idea of that tub being used to wash off acrylic paint."

"Eh, he'll get over it," Clint says, casually waving one hand as he wipes off the last streak of paint from the wall. "Trust me, that tub has seen it's fair share of horrors."

"I don't need details," James comments quietly, setting Steve down in the chair and unfolding the shirt he'd grabbed. "Okay pal, arms up."

Once again, Steve obeys wordlessly and allows James to slip the clean shirt over his head.

"There ya go, better than being covered in paint, right?" James says with a crooked grin and Steve beams back at him. "Okay, can you stand up so we can get your pants on?" Steve nods and stands carefully, bracing himself with one tiny hand against James' metal shoulder.

Clint looks back over his shoulder, watching as the assassin manages to wiggle the tiny Captain into the offered pants. "You know, you're actually pretty good at this," he says, noticing the way the other man keeps a protective arm wrapped around the toddler version of Steve Rogers at all times.

"One more word, Barton…" the assassin warns dangerously and Clint shakes his head.

"No, I'm serious," Clint continues, ignoring the dark look James throws at him. "I mean you're terrifying and all, don't get me wrong. Like, I'm pretty sure you could kick my ass in a fair fight and that's saying something. But you're, like, weirdly good at taking care of him."

"I've always taken care of him," James answers automatically and the words are out of him mouth before he realizes he's said anything. It's the truth though; big or small, Captain America or scrawny kid from Brooklyn, James has always, _always_ taken care of Steve.

"I can see that," Clint says with a nod and shrug. "It's like watching a mother bear protect her cubs. Only instead of claws and sharp teeth you have a metal arm and enough guns to start your own militia."

"Nothing wrong with being on the safe side," James says as he finishes dressing Steve. He scrubs at his wet hair with the towel for a second until Steve makes a disapproving little noise and bats at his hands. "Alright, alright," he mutters, pulling the towel away and setting it on the table. "No need to get snippy."

"Are we going home?" Steve asks, staring at James with those big blue eyes he could never say no to. Damn him.

"Yeah kid, we're going home," the assassin tells him, plucking him off the chair and setting him down on the ground. "Say goodbye to Uncle Sideshow."

Clint rolls his eyes at the name. "Real mature, Barnes." He looks over at the couch and grabs something off the nearest cushion. "Just for that, I'll make sure to remember that Steve takes this."

He passes him what looks like a teddy bear wearing a black mask and a blue uniform. It's cute and fluffy and oddly familiar and it causes James to frown. "What the hell is that?"

"You kidding?" Clint asks, handing the bear to Steve who clutches it tightly. "It's a Bucky Bear. These things were hella popular when you guys were doing your thing during the war; they're practically collectibles by now."

James glares at the bear that Steve is now hugging like it's the second greatest thing in the world. "Are you fucking kidding me? Is that supposed to be me? They turned me into a Goddamn teddy bear?"

"Language," Clint admonishes with a smirk. "And yes, they turned you into a teddy bear. Hey man, take it as a compliment; most people don't get anything named after them except for trees and park benches when they kick the bucket."

"And you managed to get your hands on this how?"

"Coulson."

"Of course," James mutters with a low growl.

"I'm not surprised to be honest. Coulson is one of the biggest Captain America fanboys to have ever lived. I'm pretty sure he has a whole stockpile of these things hidden away somewhere."

"That is ridiculously creepy."

"Nah, just dedicated. Besides, Steve seems to like it well enough."

James glances down to see Steve holding onto the bear tightly with one hand while gripping his pants leg with the other. He sighs heavily. "Dammit…"

Clint just smirks. "Have fun, you two."

"Coulson is dead to me," James says in return, taking Steve's hand and leading them out the door.

* * *

**Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	3. Bedtime stories

**Hello all, hope you're having a good weekend! Here's another heaping dose of fluff and cuteness! Enjoy! :D**

* * *

"Alright, punk, time for bed," James says when he catches Steve yawning for the fourth time in five minutes.

"Not sleepy," Steve mumbles back tiredly, accentuating the protest with another huge yawn. The fact that he's literally swaying to avoid toppling over is dead giveaway as well. Stubborn to the very end.

James smirks a bit and stands slowly. "Sure you're not," he says, walking over and scooping Steve up off the floor with his metal arm. The crayons he'd been coloring with scatter across the floor and James makes a mental note to pick them up later before they get ground into the carpet. Infinitely better than the paint but still a pain in the ass to get out of carpet fibers.

"You'd make a much better argument if you weren't about to fall asleep sitting up," James tell him as he walks down the hall toward the bedroom. Steve looks like he wants to pout but he just yawns instead. James smiles a little. "My point exactly."

The bed looks absolutely enormous for Steve's much tinier body and mattress itself seems to dwarf him entirely. This was a rather unforeseen circumstance and James spends a good five minutes rearranging the pillows and blankets to make something of a barrier along the edges of the mattress to prevent Steve from tumbling out of the bed in the middle of the night. Satisfied with his work, he gently deposits the tiny Captain into the middle of the bed and proceeds to further bracket his body with pillows.

"I drew a picture," Steve tells him as the pile of pillows continues to grow taller.

"Oh yeah?" James asks absently, tucking the sheets in tightly and keep the pillows in place. "Of what?"

"You," Steve says, holding up the prized, crumpled drawing for him to see. It's a mess of colors and scribbly lines but there is clearly a humanoid shape in the center of the page with long hair and one grey arm. Even worse, the figure is sporting a big, goofy grin that spreads all the way across his face. James stares at the portrait in a combination of shock and horror.

"Like it?" Steve asks with a big smile all his own.

"Uh...yeah, kid," James says, taking the offered picture carefully. "It's...great?"

Steve grins again and snuggles into the pillow fort James had built around him, content with the assassin's acceptance of his gift. James continues to stare at the drawing for a few more seconds, unsure whether he should be flattered or appalled. It's undeniably endearing, crudely drawn and uncoordinated but obviously Steve had spent a good amount of time on it and was proud of the final result. He finally gives in with a small shrug and tuck the drawing into his pocket.

Steve appears completely oblivious to all of this and watches him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. "Will you tell me a story?" he asks after a second and James freezes momentarily.

"A story?" he repeats, halfway between surprised confusion and flat out refusal.

"Mhmm," Steve confirms, nodding like a tiny bobble head.

"Uh," James drawls, stalling for time to come up with an appropriate excuse. Finding next to nothing, he sighs and rubs the back of his neck with one hand. "Listen kid, I'm not exactly the story telling type. All the stories I know don't really have the happy endings everyone is so fond of."

"Please?" Steve presses and dammit all if he doesn't use those puppy eyes again. What's even worse is that he probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. Jerk.

"Alright, alright, fine," he says with a sigh, waving his hands like it will somehow banish the effect of Steve's imploring expression. "Enough with the puppy eyes. Seriously, those things should be added to the Geneva Convention as a form of cruel and unusual punishment."

He sighs heavily and sits down on the edges of the bed. "What kind of story do you want?"

Steve thinks for a second, sinking further into the pile of pillows that have taken up the bed. "A good one," he says finally and that seems to answer all the questions in his book.

"A good one, huh?" James continues, tucking the blankets around Steve's tiny, frail frame. He seems to be wading in the seas of blankets and pillows, his small form dwarfed by all the bedding.

"Yeah," Steve says with a sleepy grin and a single nod.

"Fair enough," James says with a shrug, smoothing the edge of the comforter briefly. He's stalling for time, he knows he is, but in all honesty he doesn't know any bedtime stories. Cryostasis be damned, he doesn't even remember bedtime stories from his childhood. His mother certainly never told him any before bed and the very few he had heard of (Goldielocks, Little Red Riding Hood, something about some chick with an apple) were little more than scattered snippets that he wasn't sure how to piece together. He sighs, realizing he's stuck, and just starts with whatever is on the top of his head.

"Once upon a time there was a dark, scary monster," he begins, rambling off a basic, skeletal storyline as he goes. "This monster was mean and angry and everyone was afraid of him but that was okay because the monster didn't really like people very much to begin with and it suited him just fine." And suddenly the bedtime story had become a personal anecdote...seriously, how is this his life?

He tugs the comforter up a little higher over Steve's skinny shoulders and continues. "So the monster stayed hidden away in a cold, frozen castle for a long time, only coming out to terrorize the people when some sadistic dick bag decided he needed to use the monster for his own purposes."

"What's a-" Steve starts and James cuts him off before he can finish because Jesus, hearing Captain America say the words "dick" and "bag" in the same sentence was enough make Uncle Sam roll in his grave, let alone a tiny, toddler version of the good Captain.

"Nevermind," he says quickly, continuing on with the story. "So anyway, one day the monster was confronted by a brave knight. This knight was strong and courageous and just a little too stupid for his own good," James mumbles and he rolls his eyes when Steve grins at him.

"Quit smiling like that. That's nothing to smile about. The knight is kind of an idiot." Steve continues to grin and James is left at a loss.

"So this brave, stupid knight confronts the monster and tells him he doesn't have to be mean and scary. He tells the monster he'll be his friend and that the monster doesn't have to live in his cold, frozen castle anymore. The monster retaliates by immediately trying to eat the knight."

Rather than being upset by the change in the story, Steve is looking up at him expectantly, his expression painfully optimistic. James feels an uncomfortable little twist in his stomach and continues. "So the monster tries to eat the knight a few times and nearly gets him killed on more than one occasion but the knight just doesn't know when to quit and sticks around like a stubborn jerk."

James pauses, reaching out to very carefully push Steve's too long hair away from his eyes. The tiny Captain is nearly asleep, blinking slowly and fighting the alluring pull of slumber.

"Well the monster, having never met someone who wasn't afraid of him, was kind of impressed by the knight's bravery. Actually, he was more baffled by his stupidity but bravery sounds better in the long run. Anyway, the monster decided that he didn't want to eat the knight anymore and decided he would rather protect him and keep him safe instead."

"Then what?" Steve asks quietly, his voice soft and fading as he slides closer to sleep.

"Then the monster kept his promise and made it his new mission to protect the brave knight and keep him safe. The monster had made a friend and he was going to make sure nothing would ever happen to the knight as long as he was around."

He shrugs as the story he created comes to an end. "And they lived happily ever after. At least until the knight decided to do something stupid again and the monster seriously started considering locking him away in a plastic bubble for the rest of his life."

Steve smiles sleepily up at him. "I like the monster," he says simply and for some reason that means everything.

James smiles and smoothes his hair back once again with gentle fingers. "I know you do, kid." He reaches down on the floor and grabs that stupid Bucky Bear that Clint had made certain they take home with them. Damn him.

He tucks the bear into the pile of pillows and blankets and Steve hugs it close. "Now get some sleep, okay?" he says, leaving the lamp beside the bed on but tilting the shade away so it dims the light. "I'll be down the hall if you need me."

Steve doesn't even have the energy to protest and simply hugs the bear closer, burying his face in the soft fur. His eyes slide closed and he's asleep within seconds, leaving his unofficial guardian awake and alone in the room.

James watches him for a few seconds longer before he finally makes the move to get off the bed. He pulls the blankets up a bit higher, tucking them around Steve so he stays warm. Satisfied, he turns and walks toward the bedroom door, closing it halfway behind him as Steve sleeps on.

**OOOOO**

James comes awake with a jerk. He's gotten used to going from complete unconsciousness to instantly alert over the past few decades but it doesn't mean he enjoys the experience. He's wide awake now though, eyes open and staring up at the darkened ceiling above him. There's someone in the room with him, standing right beside the bed and hovering. He turns his head to see Steve standing hesitantly by the side of the bed. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, muscles still tense and rigid from his abrupt return to consciousness.

"Jesus, kid...give a guy a little warning next time, huh?" he mutters, passing his metal hand over his face wearily. When Steve still doesn't move, he finally turns back to look at him. "What's wrong, Stevie? You okay?"

"I had a bad dream," Steve tells him quietly, his voice shaky and fragile in the darkness. James can't stand that, not for a second, and he turns on the light. That's almost worse.

Steve is hovering by his bedside, teddy bear tucked under one arm and tiny fingers tangled in the rumpled sheets on the bed. His hair is sticking up at all angles, wild and eschew, and there's the barest hint of frightened tears in his wide blue eyes. He looks little and lost and James feels all his earlier snappiness fade away in an instant.

"A bad dream, huh?" he asks, pulling himself into a sitting position and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "What kind of bad dream?"

"There was a man under the bed," Steve tells him and James momentarily freezes. It wasn't outside the realms of possibility that it hadn't been a nightmare but, in fact, a reality. If someone found out about Steve's pint-sized predicament, it would be all to easy to slip in in the middle of the night and snatch him away.

James is on his feet then, maneuvering carefully so he's placing himself between Steve and the door. He doesn't want to frighten him but he doesn't want him to be too close to the open door either. He doesn't have any weapons in the apartment (thanks toddler-proofing) but he doesn't necessarily need them to take someone down. Especially if that someone is a threat to Steve.

"What did the man look like, Stevie?" James asks, edging toward the door and glancing down the hall toward the other bedroom. There's no sign of movement and he doesn't hear anything but his senses stay on high alert.

"He had a red face," comes Steve's tiny reply and he clings to the bear a little tighter like it will magically chase away all the bad dreams.

A red face? James frowns and it takes a second for the pieces to click together. He vaguely remembers a man with a red face from a lifetime ago, his flesh the color of blood, silhouette shrouded in flames. He remembers reading the files about Steve's final mission before the ice, how he defeated Red Skull and thwarted his plan at the cost of his own life. It seems that even seventy years down the line, he was still prominent enough in Steve's mind to give him nightmares.

James feels his shoulders relax just slightly and he lets out a slow breath. "Red Skull? Red Skull was hiding under your bed?"

Steve nods emphatically at the question. James nearly laughs in relief and shakes his head. "Don't worry, pal. I don't think Red Skull is going to be bothering anyone anymore."

When Steve still remains rooted to the floor, he shrugs in defeat. "Do you want me to go check for homicidal Nazis under your bed?"

There's another swift nod and James gives in to the world destroying puppy eyes which are rapidly becoming Steve's greatest weapon. "Okay, let's go check it out," he says, allowing Steve to grasp his flesh hand with his tiny fingers and follow him down the hall.

The bed is still partially made from where he'd tucked Steve in earlier but there was a small pathway leading out of the sheets toward the edge of the bed where the tiny Captain had crawled out. The mountains of pillows and piles of blankets were still there though, a true testament to the quilted fortress James had built around him.

Steve hangs back by the door when James steps into the room, still clutching the bear tightly. James gives him a reassuring smile and begins the process of checking the room for any signs of nightmare fuel A.K.A Red Skull. Despite the fact that he's relatively certain Steve just had a nightmare, he takes every precaution necessary to make sure Steve is safe. He can't afford not to. At the slightest sign of trouble, he's more than ready to toss Steve over one shoulder and bolt out of the apartment.

He checks beneath the bed, in the closet, behind the door, and basically every other dark corner of the room a 1940s sociopath could hide in. Coming up with nothing (to his great relief) he turns back to Steve who still hasn't moved from the doorway. "There," he says, indicating the room with a wide sweep of his metal arm. "See? Nothing here. It was just a bad dream, Stevie."

He walks over the bed and pulls the sheets and blankets back into place. Once the bed is somewhat remade, he looks back over his shoulder at Steve. "Come on, punk, back to bed. It's late." He's actually not sure what time it is but he knows it's way too late (or early depending on the technicality) for Steve to be up and awake.

Steve doesn't move, still hovering by the door frame and looking into the room like it's housing his worst fears. James resists the urge to sigh. "Stevie, come on. You're safe, I promise. There's no one here but you and me."

Steve still doesn't move, his wide blue eyes sliding just the tiniest bit to the side to glance back down the hallway toward the assassin's room. James instantly understands the unspoken question and shakes his head. "Oh no. No, no, no. You're not sleeping with me, kiddo. That's three kinds of stupid and ten kinds of crazy. Trust me, you're much safer in here."

Steve is undeterred, still absolutely convinced that sleeping in the same bed as a reformed murderer was preferable to being left alone in a room with the memories of a red faced boogeyman.

James shakes his head, determined to be just as stubborn. "Steve, no. There is nothing wrong with your room or this bed, two things I cannot speak for down the hall. Trust me kid, this is the safer option."

There's brief moment of silence, a battle of wills and determination. Steve still hasn't moved and James is determined not to be swayed in his decision. But then it happen, dammit all, it happens. The tears form in Steve's eyes and his thin shoulders tremble just the tiniest bit. He's scared, terrified even, at the very thought of being left in this room alone again and James feels every last ounce of his resolve crumble.

"Fine. Fine!" he halfway shouts at the ceiling, frustration and fatigue causing his voice to carry louder than he means to. "One night. That's it. One night, understand?"

Steve nods and in an instant is already halfway back down the hall toward the other bedroom, teddy bear in tow. James lets out a long, heaving sigh and follows along behind him, wondering where exactly he'd gone wrong in his life to be toppled by a tiny toddler version of his best friend.

Steve is already back in the bedroom by the time he rounds the corner, hovering by the edge of the bed and waiting for the James to get there. The assassin accepts his fate and closes the door, flipping the lock absently. "Alright punk, I'm warning you right now: you hog the blankets like you used to do when we were kids and I'm kicking you out. Got it?"

The tiny captain nods in agreement and climbs up into the bed, still clutching the bear tightly. He scoots to the middle of the bed and waits patiently until James sinks onto the mattress beside him, flicking of the light as he settles back onto the bed. James barely has time to lay down before Steve latches onto him like a tiny, bony leach, curling against his side and clinging tightly.

The assassin huffs out something close to a resigned laugh and curls his flesh arm around Steve's thin shoulders, keeping him close. The stupid bear is digging into his ribs and the bed has suddenly become half the size it was before but Steve is relaxing against him and slipping off into a deep, restful sleep and James feels he really can't be angry about it anymore.

He settles back against the mattress, keeps Steve tucking tightly against his side, and closes his eyes.

* * *

**Thanks for reading guys! :D**


	4. Grocery store adventures

**Hello all! Hope you're having a good day! Okay, so I'm going to go ahead and apologize if James seems a bit OOC in this chapter; I'm writing his reaction based from personal experience so it may be a bit off for his character =/ But for anyone who has kids/babysits, you'll totally understand the panic/fear/relief/anger response that comes when you can't find your kid. Not a fun experience in the least! Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! :D**

**Flashback= _italics_**

* * *

"What do kids eat?"

"Excuse me…?"

"What do kids eat?" James repeats, a bit more impatiently this time. "You know, kids. Children. Tiny humans. Toddlers more specifically."

"Yeah, dude, I know what kids are," Clint snaps back through the phone. "They're not exactly an endangered species."

"Alright, so what do they eat?" James repeats for a third time and he's really beginning to wonder if Clint is the best person to be talking to about this. The archer sounds like he's only half awake and not really following the conversation all that clearly.

"What are you talking about?" Clint asks in exasperation, sighing softly on the other end of the phone. "Just find something in the pantry and throw it together. It's not rocket science, man."

"Yeah, well that's the problem," James says, glancing back over one shoulder to where Steve is sitting at the table coloring. "Because it turns out that toddler Steve wants nothing to do with anything adult Steve has on hand in the pantry. Seriously, there's nothing but eggs and protein bars here and Steve doesn't seem interested in either of those. So what do I do?"

"I don't know, Barnes," Clint says and James can practically hear him slump on the other side of the phone. "Just go with an old fashioned fallback: PB&J. You can't miss with that. Kids go through that like it's crack."

"We don't have that."

"What?"

"We don't have that," James repeats, opening the pantry once again like he's trying to prove a point to the archer even though he's all the way on the other side of town.

"What do you mean you don't have that?" Clint asks in disbelief, sounding slightly more awake than he had been a few moments before. "What kind of house doesn't have peanut butter and jelly? That's almost un-American. Dude, I think you're best friend, Captain America himself, might have actually done something un-American. Is Steve a communist?"

James just rolls his eyes in response. "He's not a communist. And no, we still don't have peanut butter and/or jelly. I have a hungry three-year-old over here and since I haven't exactly had the experience necessary to deal with such a situation, I'm running out of ideas."

"Well," Clint says after a minute, coming down a little from the shock caused by the lack of something he assumed to be a staple. "Looks like you're going to have to take a trip to the grocery store. I'm sure you can find something edible for him there. Hell, there's a whole aisle or so devoted to nothing but kid's foods. I'd say to start there."

There's a distant voice in the background that James can just barely make out. "Bruce says to look for Pediasure," Clint clarifies after a second but there's something like disgust in his voice. "I'm going to go ahead and veto that suggestion because Pediasure is awful and should only ever be used as a form of punishment."

There's a muffled rustling sound and suddenly a new voice appears on the other side of the phone. "James?"

James nods slightly at the greeting, realizing it could only be one other person. "Dr. Banner."

"How's Steve doing?"

James glances back toward the table to where Steve is still coloring. He seems content enough but he's fidgety and restless and he knows cranky won't be too far around the corner unless he gets some food in him soon. "He's fine but he's getting hungry. There's nothing here that's really kid friendly if you know what I mean."

"I understand," Bruce says patiently and already this conversation is ten times easier to tolerate. "I think Clint may be right though, it might be easier for you to go to a grocery store and stock up on more 'kid friendly' foods as you said. There should be one only about two blocks away from Steve's apartment. Try looking for anything labeled Gerber, that should give you a pretty good selection to choose from."

"Gerber?" James repeats back and the name sounds vaguely familiar, like he'd seen an ad for it sometime before the War. "They're still around?"

"Yep," Bruce affirms on the other line. "Been around for years so they must be doing something right. I would recommend them as a first choice."

"Alright. Anything else I should keep a look out for?"

Bruce is silent for a moment on the other end of the line. "Fruit is always a good choice," he says after a minute, obviously contemplating the question carefully. "You really can't go wrong with that."

"Okay," James mumbles, grabbing a piece of scratch paper from the table and scribbling on it. "Fruit and Gerber. Sounds simple enough."

Bruce chuckles quietly on the other line. "Walk in the park," he assures him and damned if James doesn't believe him. "Just call us if you have any questions."

"Got it," James agrees, ending the call and tucking the phone back in his pocket. He folds the scrap paper and slips it in his pocket as well, turning back to face Steve. The tiny captain is still sitting at the kitchen table, feet swinging idly while he doodles on the paper in front of him. He's still dressed in his pajamas from the night before and he has a wicked case of bedhead but he's wide awake and watching James curiously from across the room.

To James' surprise, the night before had actually gone pretty well. Steve didn't have anymore nightmares and James didn't freak out and try to kill him in the middle of the night so he counted that as a victory. True, Steve sprawled and draped and clung to him all through the night, doing his absolute best impression of a human scarf, but James wasn't all that surprised, he'd been kind of expecting it really. What he hadn't expected was for Steve to bounce awake at 6 am sharp, instantly alert and ready to get up. James was used to going on little to no sleep for days on end but coupling that with a bright-eyed toddler at what-the-hell-o'clock in the morning and it was a bit harder to drag himself out of bed that morning.

Now, said bright-eyed toddler was hungry and getting fidgety and he had to figure out how to remedy this problem. Should be simple enough, right?

"Alright, kiddo, wanna take a trip to the grocery store?" he asks, watching as Steve nods excitedly across the room. "Well, we can't go anywhere with you in your pajamas. Go get changed and we'll leave."

Steve does as he's told, sliding off the chair and running down the hall to the bedroom. There's a muffled crash toward the end of the hall and James sighs softly and makes his way to the bedroom, knowing that despite all his fierce independence, Steve will more than likely need help getting dressed. As expected, he finds Steve doing his best to stick his head through the sleeve of a shirt and struggling to put on pants that the same time and it's all just a mess. He drops down to one knee and begins carefully untangling the tiny captain from the cotton prison he's found himself caught in.

A few minutes later, Steve is dressed and James has a wad of cash tucked into the pocket of his jeans and they're on their way to the grocery store. Just as Bruce had said, the grocery store is only a few blocks away, a short enough distance to walk and not have to bother with a cab. Steve doesn't quite hold his hand during the walk but he does hang on to the hem of James' jacket, taking small, short steps and stumbling occasionally. James will reach down every once and a while and catch the back of his shirt to keep him from toppling over but for the most part he lets him walk on his own. Steve had always felt the need to prove he didn't need help and now was no different.

The grocery store is surprisingly crowded for an early morning but then everything seems crowded nowadays. Everyone always seems in a rush, hurrying from one place to another, and there never seems to be enough space. James has never been a big fan of crowds, too much can go wrong when too many people get together, and now is no exception. He grabs a basket as they walk inside and scoops Steve up off the ground, depositing him into the basket carefully.

Seeing the look of cranky protest forming on the tiny captain's face, James just shakes his head and pushes forward. "You can walk when we leave. There's too many people here right now." Steve still looks unhappy with the arrangement but he doesn't argue. Whether he's hungry or just choosing his battles, James isn't sure but he doesn't question it.

He pushes the basket into the nearest aisle and leans against the top of it with his forearms. "Alright punk, we're going to work out a system here. Now it's going to be pretty complex but try to follow along, okay?" Upon seeing Steve's nod, he continues. "When I point to something, nod your head for 'yes' or shake your head for 'no.' Got it?"

Steve giggles and nods in understanding. James feels a smirk tug at his lips and he nods as well. "Great. Onward."

They make their way up and down each aisle slowly, a careful nod or shake of the head accompanying each suggestion. Some of the items James doesn't even question and just puts it in the basket because they need it at the apartment. Eventually (soon, he hopes), Steve will be out of this mess and back to normal and having a whole pantry full of kid food won't do either of them a bit of good. So he stocks up on things they'll actually need for the future and not just the present. Steve makes a face at some of it and James makes a face right back. Steve may not understand the importance of things like coffee right now but he'll definitely understand it later.

Eventually the basket is filled almost to the top with a combination of both kid and adult friendly food items. James makes certain to get peanut butter and jelly because he's pretty sure Clint won't ever let that go if he doesn't and he finds a pretty decent selection to choose from in the Gerber department. The only thing that's left is produce; Bruce said kids love fruit after all.

James pushes the basket into the produce section and parks it next to the lettuce. "Alright pal, same rules apply here. Ready?" Steve nods his assent and they begin working their way through each section.

"Okay, carrots?" Nod. "Celery?" Shake. "Broccoli?" Shake. "Grapes?" Nod. "Oranges?" Nod.

The shake/nod system works well enough and they make it almost to the end of the produce section within a matter of minutes. Steve nods a 'yes' at the suggestion of apples and James goes to reach for a plastic bag only to find the holder empty. He curses under his breath and looks back to the other end of the produce section, seeing only one other stand with plastic bags available.

"Wait here, kiddo," he says, turning back to face Steve. "I'll be back in just a sec." He steps away from the basket and walks across to the other end of the produce department, reaching the plastic bag dispenser at the same time an elderly woman does. She snags a bag just before he does, smiling slightly as he approaches. "Adorable little boy you have over there," she tells him with a smile.

James quirks an eyebrow in response. "Uh, thanks. I guess."

"How old is he?"

He frowns slightly and grabs the plastic bag from the roll. Was this small talk? He's not very good with small talk; most of the small talk he's accustomed to involves begging and bribery. "Ninety-" he starts but upon the woman's confused expression he corrects himself. "Three. He's three."

The woman smiles again and fills her own plastic bag with cabbage. "Well, he's precious. Better keep an eye on him, the ladies will be all over him when he grows up."

James frowns a little again; he's not sure if that should be creepy or a compliment. It suddenly dawns on him that this woman thinks he's Steve's father and he's even more uncomfortable with the exchange. "Uh, yeah...I'll be sure to do that."

The woman just smiles once more and nods, walking away from the vegetable bins and back to her own cart. James watches her for a split second longer before he sighs and turns away to go back to his own basket. His heart drops in his chest and his blood freezes.

Steve is gone.

The basket is still there, everything else still inside, but Steve is nowhere to be seen. He's not standing beside it, he's not wandering around in the produce section. He's gone. Instantly on high alert, James clears the space between where he's standing and the basket in a matter of seconds, searching frantically for the tiny captain. He doesn't see him, he has no idea where he could have gone, it's like Steve just vanished into thin air.

His heart is pounding hard and fast against his ribs, cold dread sinking into the pit of his stomach. What if someone took him? What if he'd been kidnapped? What if that woman was just a distraction while someone else moved in to snatch Steve out of the basket? He was only away for a minute at most, they couldn't have gone far...

He turns, nearly running face first into a teenage employee restocking the produce section. He grabs the kid by both shoulders and nearly shakes him. "Have you seen a little kid around here?!" he asks frantically, watching as the employee's eye's widen a bit at the question.

"Uh...a kid?" the teenager stammers in confusion, eyes wide and voice shaky.

"Yes, a kid!" James snaps angrily. "He's about two and a half feet tall, he has blond hair and big puppy eyes and not a single Goddamn self-preservation bone in his body!"

"N-No, man, I haven't seen him…" the kid stammers again and apparently this was the wrong thing to say because James immediately shoves him into a wall filled with crates of potatoes.

He growls dangerously and the employee yelps a bit as the metal hand tightens against his shoulder. "If something's happened to him-"

"Bucky!" a tiny voice squeaks from behind and James wheels around to see Steve coming out from under one of the fruit stands. He has a plastic bag in one hand and an apple in the other. He holds the plastic bag up proudly like a trophy. "I found a bag!"

James releases the employee instantly drops to his knees in front of Steve. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he snaps sharply. "Why did you get out of the basket?!"

Steve's look of excitement fades and his smile falters. "I found a bag," he repeats in a small voice like that's all the explanation the other man needs.

James isn't sure whether he wants to shake him or shoot something so he settles with growling instead. "Don't you ever do that again! If I tell you to stay put, you stay put! Do you understand?" he growls and Steve gives him a shaky nod in return. He looks like he's about two seconds away from tears but James doesn't care; he's still coming off the adrenaline surge from thinking Steve had been kidnapped and he's not about to give in now.

He snatches him up and drops him back in the basket, depositing the extra bag and the apple in as well. "Don't move again," he says, grinding out each word to make a point. Steve just nods again and sits quietly, head tipping down in shame.

James glances back at the employee he sort of assaulted to see the teen hasn't moved and is still staring at him with wide, panicked eyes. "Sorry," he says shortly, turning away and leaving the startled teen where he stood. A few other shoppers in the area had given him a few surprised looks when he yelled at Steve but he didn't care. Let them stare, he doesn't feel bad for snapping.

They check out and bag the groceries and leave the store and James doesn't say another word to Steve while they walk back to the apartment. He blames it on concentrating on not dropping the several bags of groceries he has loaded in his arms and not on the fact that he's still shaken from thinking Steve had gone missing. He knows Steve didn't mean it, that he didn't know what he was doing, but turning around and seeing him gone had shaken him to his core. If he only knew one absolute truth for the rest of his life, it was that Steve was everything to him and losing him was simply not an option.

So they walk back to the apartment in silence, James still trying to regain his composure and keep himself from snapping at the tiny captain trailing along beside him. Steve doesn't say anything either, a box of cereal tucked under one arm and a bag full of paper towels and napkins dragging slightly along the ground beside him. He glances up every now and then as if trying to gauge the other man's expression but James doesn't look at him. He's afraid if he does, he'll lose it all over again and he doesn't want to put Steve through that.

They make it back to the apartment a few minutes later and James nudges the door open with his elbow. Steve walks inside and sets down his load of groceries, turning to James for instruction.

"Go sit down while I put this stuff away," he tells him shortly and Steve nods slowly, walking out of the room in dejected silence. James watches him go but he doesn't say anything, not just yet. He's still working through processing everything and it may take a bit longer before he can speak without snapping.

He busies himself with putting away their groceries, the task menial and secondary to everything else going through his mind. He knows he shouldn't have lashed out at Steve, it wasn't his fault and he hadn't done it one purpose, but he also knows that anxiety and fear can cause strange emotional reactions and sometimes lashing out is the first thing that comes to mind. He knows he's been on the receiving end of said lashing more than once, almost always coming from Steve, and it was always when the younger man was worried about him. He never really understood it before but he now he does.

He has a vague, hazy memory from years ago, back when they still lived in their little shack apartment in Brooklyn. He doesn't fight the memories and he doesn't try to force them; he remembers enough from the sessions with Dr. Chandler to just relax and let them come back naturally.

_He was around sixteen or seventeen, working at the docks and holding down his first real, steady job that paid on a regular basis. It was hard work, long hours and manual labor, but it paid well and it kept a roof over their heads so he couldn't complain. Except that day he could complain because it was hot and the day had been just a little bit too long and working in close quarters hadn't exactly agreed with everyone on the floor. _

_One too many collisions while moving crates and one to many snappy confrontations had led to more than one altercation. Blows were exchanged, lips split, and the dock foreman had broken up several fights that day, the last one coming with a warning that if it happened again, the consequence would be immediate termination. He couldn't risk that, not when this job was the only thing paying the rent, so he'd left for a smoke break and stayed away for close to an hour and half to get his mood back in order. _

_When he returned later that afternoon, there was a crowd forming around the edge of the dock, police officers and workers mixed together. He edged forward, trying to see what was going on at the edge of the dock. Through snippets and fragments of conversation, he managed to piece together that there had been some kind of accident and three workers had fallen over the edge of the pier with the crate they were moving and sank into the murky water below. They hadn't resurfaced and that had been over half an hour ago; an assumption of drowning wasn't hard to come to. It was a tragedy, that was for sure, but it was an occupational hazard they all understood going in._

_The foreman had let them go early that day while the police officers stayed behind for questioning. He'd taken the back way home, ducking through alleys and side streets until he finally made it back to the apartment. He'd been fully expecting Steve to be there when he got home and was somewhat surprised when he stepped into an empty apartment. There was no note, no messages saying where he'd disappeared off to, Steve was just gone._

_Part of him wanted to believe that Steve had just stepped out to the store on the corner or maybe, with a little charm and a bucket full of luck, he'd met up with a cute little dame to spend the evening with. He doubted that though; not because Steve wasn't capable of finding himself a girl but because he definitely would have left a note explaining where he was. No, Steve wasn't here and that was cause enough for concern. Unfortunately, that also meant he was probably out getting himself beaten to pulp in some dusty alley and that dumb kid never did know how to back down from a fight._

_He sighed and turned, locking the door behind him and heading back down the stairs. If he had to scour every alley in Brooklyn to find Steve, he would. They looked out for each other, forever and always, and it was his job to keep Steve safe. He cleared the bottom steps and was just about to step out onto the sidewalk when he nearly ran face first into a very frantic, very panicky Steve Rogers._

_He caught the younger man by shoulders when he came barreling around the corner, steadying him easily. "Whoa, easy kid. Where's the fire?"_

"_Bucky?!" Steve exclaimed, half in surprise and half in relief. That relief was almost instantly replaced by anger and he shoved the older boy away slightly. "Where were you?!" he demanded sharply, blue eyes flashing with anger and something close to fear._

_He frowned in confusion, not sure where all the anger was coming from. "I just got off work," he told him honestly, still keeping both hands firmly grounded on Steve's bony shoulders even while the smaller man tried to pull away. "I came back here and you were gone. Where were you?"_

"_Jerk!" Steve growled hotly but this time it wasn't so much out of anger but more out of relief. "Mrs. Thomas said there had been an accident down at the docks! I went by to make sure you were alright and no one had seen you! They didn't know where you were! Someone said you had fallen in-" Steve stopped then, shaking his head angrily and trying once again to (unsuccessfully) pull away._

_Realization hit like a tidal wave and his shoulders slumped slightly. "Oh, Stevie…" he said, squeezing the younger man's shoulders slightly in reassurance. _

"_Don't 'Stevie' me!" Steve snapped back, anger still coming to forefront over relief at this point. He stopped trying to pull away and settled with a solid punch to the other boy's shoulder. "Where do you get off just wandering away like that and not telling anyone where you're going?! I thought you were dead, you jerk!"_

_The punch doesn't hurt nearly as much as Steve probably wanted it to but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he just pulled the smaller man into a hug and crushes him against his chest. "Sorry pal, didn't mean to scare you."_

_Steve thrashed and squirmed and tried to pull away to no avail. He'd been anxious and frantic and worried sick and now all of that was culminating together to make him feisty and irritable. "Let go of me, Buck," he muttered against the older boy's shoulder but it fell on deaf ears. _

_He just tightened his hold and rested his chin on the top of Steve's head. "Not letting go until you stop trying to fight me."_

_Steve sighed heavily and went still, resting his forehead against the other boy's sternum. His fists clenched in the back of his shirt, tangling in the fabric and clinging tightly. He lets out a slow, shuddering breath, bony shoulders trembling slightly as he does. Hell, most of him is trembling by this point, residual adrenaline and fear leaving him a quaking mess. _

"_You scared the hell outta me, Buck," Steve mumbled after a second, his face still buried against the older boy's chest. He was still snappy and a bit feisty but most of that had faded away into numbing relief. He sags a bit in the embrace but his fists still remain tangled in the shirt._

"_Sorry Stevie," the other boy muttered back, swiping one hand up and down Steve's trembling back briskly. "Won't do it again."_

"_You better not," comes the grumbled reply and he smiles a little at the response._

"_I won't kid, I promise."_

The memory fades slowly, trickling away like ripples in a pond. He lets it go without trying to reclaim it, allowing his thoughts to come back to the present. The groceries have all been put away and he's sitting at the kitchen table, metal fist clenched loosely on the table top. He uncurls his fingers slowly, watching each joint relax and straighten out against the table.

There's a very small, hesitant tug at his knee and he looks down to see Steve hovering by the side of his chair. The tiny captain looks up at him sheepishly and hands him a small, round object. James reached out and takes the offering, looking down to see an apple placed carefully in the palm of his hand. The same apple from the grocery store earlier. An apology and a peace offering. James sighs heavily and drops his head back. Damn it all…

He reaches down and scoops the little boy off the floor, folding him onto his lap and keeping his arm around him. "Listen, Stevie," he begins, wide blue eyes focused directly on his face. "I'm sorry for what happened earlier; I shouldn't have yelled at you." He sighs and passes a hand through the toddler's soft blond hair. "You scared the hell outta me, kid," he tells him honestly, his own voice echoing over the words from the memory.

"Sorry," Steve tells him earnestly, tiny fists tangled in his shirt.

James smirks faintly and rests his chin on top of Steve's head again like he used to do all those long years before. "It's okay," he says after a minute, Steve squirming just a bit to get into a more comfortable position. "Just don't do it again, got it?" He lets out a low sigh and mumbles beneath his breath, "Don't know what I would do if I lost you."

Steve just nods and leans against him. "Promise."

* * *

**Thanks for reading guys! :D**


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